the moon is the only light we'll see
by phaenomenaa
Summary: a prequel for 'it's like the sun runs in your veins'. titled with ben e. king's 'stand by me in mind'. /gerbelg and late nights and make outs leading to other things./ {second attempt at smut, haha.}


Her bedroom is promptly quieted with the shut of her light, save for the soft pitter-patter of the summer's rain outside. Mathilde moves her hand away from her lamp to her covers, pulling them aside as she climbs into her bed, the mattress sinking underneath her weight. She brushes a sweaty strand of hair away from her forehead as she settles deeper, the sheets feeling stiff around her body with their neat and crisp folds.

There's the waltz of fresh wind into her room that cools over the sheen of moisture on her skin, and she blinks slowly, trying to drag sleep over her eyelids, but she can only turn to her side and then, after a pause, onto her back again. There's a restless itch beneath her veins and she can't find a comfortable position for the life of her.

She purses her lips as she blows out some air, pauses, and then shifts towards the welcoming bloom of the wind on her left. The sky's stars and constellations are peeking through her curtains, glinting amidst droplets of rain, and her thoughts eventually drift from the moonlight and the mist to _him_ , and she ponders whether he's in bed too, or perhaps still working till late.

Then, she thinks about the coolness of the sheets around her despite the hotness of the air, and she wishes he were here with her. She exhales a frustrated breath, really cursing him and his paperwork. (Mathilde despises missing people more than anything, but she can't really blame him for that. Even if it's been three months and he isn't meant to come back for another four weeks.)

She kicks around in her sheets, trying to lay pleasantly, but she's absolutely sleepless—and completely bored. Perhaps if he _is_ in bed, she could bother him with a small text and they could do other things that would resolve her from her ennui. She glances at her smartphone decidedly, its shape lying listlessly on her nightstand, and shimmies herself up daintily from underneath her covers. Her fingertips scratch the glass of her phone as she reaches for it, but the sound of tires rolling down her street on wet gravel distracts her. She frowns in a dither, looking up; midnight runs aren't unusual in the city, but her area is normally quiet after the clock strikes twelve. The girl lifts herself out of bed, hand stilling onto the windowsill as she glances outside.

There's a taxi down below, parked in front of her apartment, the metal of the vehicle softly patterned with rain droplets. She can hear the blades move rhythmically back-and-forth over the windshield as she presses closer to the glass, trying to catch a better glimpse. A door opens, the hand of a man holding it, and then faint conversation is heard : " _Oui, merci—ça ira comme ça._ "

Her eyes widen as she recognizes the delectably foreign French, too guttural and hoarse to be of the region, and her mouth parts into an incredulous drop. She lets out a half-chuckle, disbelieving, but the familiar head of blonde that pokes out from the vehicle and the follow of broad shoulders over an expensive suit prove her wrong. The cab drives off, back lights gleaming hot-red in the night and Ludwig turns towards her front steps. His fingertips reach into his right pant pocket for his keys, his other hand holding a dangling briefcase. Before he can reach her front door, she opens her window wider, leans out and whispers loudly, stilling him on the sidewalk, "Ludwig Beilschmidt, _what_ are you doing here?"

His head snaps up at the sound of her voice, and he grins sheepishly at the meaning of her words. His leather-clad foot rubs slightly into the wet cement, and he tells her, "Visiting my girlfriend."

"Oh? _Your_ girlfriend?" she continues, her mouth pursed in mirth. She tries not to smile, because she isn't sixteen anymore (she hasn't been sixteen for ages, she's grown-up now) and words with such simplicity aren't meant to make her bloom with pleasure.

" _Ja,_ " he answers, his hand swaying the briefcase lightly as the other rests in its pocket. She leans an elbow on her windowsill, pressing her palm into her cheek, "And what were you planning on doing? Break into her apartment?"

"Not really," he replies as he gives her a complacent look. "She gave me a set of keys." There's the glint of the metal in the orange lamppost-light as he raises his hand to show her. He adds, for good measure—and it's borderline killing the mood—"Considering technicalities, it doesn't count as breaking in." (They've been dating for a few years now, and still he doesn't know how to flirt.) Ludwig blinks, the rain softly hitting his face. His hair is already starting to curl over, the humidity undoing his gelled style. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Hmm," she hums, mocking thoughtfulness as she taps a finger on her chin, leans over. "I don't know; should I really let men into my house after midnight? Would that be so very wise?"

He tilts his head sideways, his hand coming to grip his hipbone, keys jiggling."I'm sure that's not the most unadvisable thing you've done with a man."

She opens her mouth, closes it and chews on her bottom lip, cursing herself for her lack of a rebuttal. She opts for an indifferent air, but her eyes narrow as she asks, "Do you want to come in or _not_?"

He replies, "I could just let myself in."

"Oh, gosh," she mutters, and she could roll her eyes at his brass. He loses sight of her as she pulls away from the window, her bare feet padding onto the hardwood floor towards the staircase as she lowers the tonality of her voice and mocks him underneath her breath, "' _I could just let myself in._ '" Mathilde shakes her head as she eases her way down the staircase before reaching her front door and opening it with bounce. He's standing tall with his half-tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his day-old suit dripping with pearls of water, and he mutters a ' _hallo._ '

There's no answer from her; she only pulls him inside and then around her, her hands tugging on his sleeves for him to embrace her. Her cheek digs into his chest, feeling the rise of his breath underneath her skin, and his briefcase feels heavy on her butt as his hands fold over her lower back. He places his chin on the top of her head, kissing her hair once whilst they stand there, silent and comforted in each other's presence. Ludwig pulls her away gently after a moment, moving to leave his briefcase on a bench but she stops him, her fingers clutching his shirt as she lifts herself on her raspberry-red tippy toes, tilts her chin up and looks at him expectantly. The bridge of his nose colours and his hands steady her hips before his jaw leans forward and then he's kissing her mouth and she's dipping her tongue between his lips.

They draw it out for a sigh, imperceptibly close until Mathilde steals away, and she chuckles when he starts to follow, his lips still pursed. She reminds him, "You know, you pulled me out of my bed, and I was getting rather comfortable—" ( _lie,_ ) "—so I expect you to redeem yourself."

"Alright," he nods, once, twice, and once again, turning to pull his shoes and his coat suit off, the briefcase lying on the bench long forgotten. Her mere kiss has emphasized all that he's missed, and his thoughts forget tiredness, dragging on to other things.

She moves away into the midst of the darkness of her apartments and he catches up, his palms pushing underneath her t-shirt as he tugs her around, gathers her up and around him, his thumb pads digging into the flesh of her thighs as he locks her knees to his waist. Her laughter flits about the air as she grins widely, her fingertips denting his strong neck and then the fabric of his tie, tugging at the knot for it to unlace. It falls to the ground, slips down a few steps as Ludwig leads them upstairs carefully, revelling in the feel of her neck against his lips and the scratch of her nails at the back of his scalp.

.

He presses into her bedroom in a stumble, his hands wandering over her legs to her asscheeks, digging underneath her petal-patterned shorts and her throat scratches underneath her whimper when he falls back onto her mattress, has her perched on his lap and grinds _up_ into her.

His hips scrape against hers again, and she hums, biting onto her bottom lip as she splays her hands against his shirt collar, fingers moving deftly to remove the unlaced-tie, pressing into the buttons to push them undone. He busies himself with the underside of her chin, feathering along as she hurries in getting his dress shirt off, urging his arms to shuffle out of it, and she throws it behind her, the fabric pooling onto the ground. Her attention moves to his belt while his lips graze wetly the column of her throat, his fingers delving into the hair at the nape of her neck, and she pulls the cincture out through the loops; he stops suddenly underneath her, remembering something as the canting of his pelvis stills. She looks up, inquiring as she manages to open the front of his pant buttons. "We—" he starts, panting, "—we have work tomorrow, Mathilde."

"Oh," she manages, her own breath faltering. "Yes," she confirms, uncaring as her lips hover over the juncture of his jaw and he feels the scrape of their dampness on his skin. She moves to feather his chin, his jawline with her kisses, tugs on his belt loops, and urges, " _Allez_ , get these off."

He's glad to take all of her affections with fervour, (it's tempting really, and his heart thrums with need,) but he tries again, glancing at her clock, "Mathilde, it's nearly one. We—we should go to bed."

"That'd be—" she starts to say, pecking her way back up to his lips, and furthers, "—the reasonable thing to do." Her mouth kisses the right of his, but he moves away to press his own to her cheek briefly, before holding back as he gets her to pull away from him. He warns, "Mathilde…" and she sighs.

Both their chests pull-and-push with their lack of respire, and both feel lush pleasure titillate in them as she tightens her lips in consideration. He watches her hand lift to her cheekbone to brush a lock of hair back, and her eyes ricochet from his cheeks to the bridge of his nose. He's red with heat that she knows entirely to be due to other things than the temperature; she's not any better, her pulse beating fast in her veins. Sex is something they both want so so very badly right now, and she prays Ludwig won't ask for her to be reasonable.

His gaze is intent on hers, and he opts to add reluctantly, with a little seriousness to his tone, "Maybe tomorrow morning—or after work..."

She stills, pondering as she raises an eyebrow. (She already knows how this'll really end—he's hard underneath her, and she's barely touched him enough.)

"Mhm, you know," she hums easily, drawing out the next syllables, "You're right." Mathilde slowly lifts herself off him as she adds, "And really, it's too _hot_ to do _anything_." She sways in front of him, waiting. There's a pause, and his jaw clenches as she starts to move away, but he takes hold of her hips, keeping her to him. She grins, a glimmer of smugness skirting along her features. He stays silent, debating; his thumb rubs into the skin of her hipbone, idly tracing the shape of it, and some of her fingers are drawing along his left collarbone to his shoulder, feeling the taut muscle underneath her nail.

"You know," she tries to help, "we could just have sex. Quickly." He glances up from her sterling-green eyes over to her tousled-ready-for-bed-figure; her t-shirt is bunched over the planes of her stomach, her shorts are pushed over her thighs and barely covering her ass, and he just really, _really_ wants to fuck her.

Ludwig cocks his jaw to the side, repeats lowly, "Quickly." She hums to edge him on, threading her fingers at the back of his head to play with some strands of hair. He groans out some hot air in resignation, drags her over so that she's pushed onto the bed beside him—she giggles, he shakes his head, and he tells her, "It's not my fault if you're tired tomorrow."

"Oh, please," she laughs as he raises himself, drags onto her knees to part her legs. "I think I'll be fine."

He hums in response, pulling his pants down in urgency and kicking out of them, his fingers threading down his socks—he _needs_ to get everything _off_ , and _now_ —as she watches him from the mattress, sprawled onto the white sheets, her shirt just shy of showing her breasts and he can see her chest raise and pull. She starts to turn and move upwards near the headboard but he stops her, tells her "No, wait."

She frowns, staying put, her fingers tracing over the waistband of her shorts idly and he tugs at them, dragging her bottoms down her legs and off to the side; he climbs onto the bed and latches his mouth to hers, prodding. She kicks her legs up, his pelvis digging down into hers, rubbing and her hands busy themselves in his hair, travelling down his strong neck to hold him closer. She dents her fingertips to his jawline, softly tracing as she hums contently to his lips. He gulps down her 'missed you—' with the press of his tongue into her mouth, grazing her teeth. They grind against one another, just the fine line of their underwear restraining the very-much-needed-feel of skin-on-skin.

She trails her fingers over the elastic of his boxer-briefs, dipping in the front to stroke him as she feels more urgency in his kiss; he pulls away and draws back, grazing her cheek, her neck, and her lips again and she laughs lowly, rubbing harder. He shudders against her, his palms cupping the side of her rib cage, feeling the fast pace of her heart underneath the heat of his touch, and he pushes her tee off her chest completely and over her head; Ludwig leans forward, brushes his hot breath over her tits and she croons at the affection. He leaves a wet lap over her breasts, fondling them at the same time, and she rubs his cock, earning a groan over her skin.

The air's become sweltering between them, and even so, she still gets a trail of goosebumps from her across her pert nipples over to her belly, moaning lowly. Her other hand shimmies down into her panties, fingering her clit as her head arches back, pumps him all the while. She breathes out a loud groan, the pleasure finally unravelling from her core at her desperate touch, and Ludwig presses down onto her thigh, bruising her ribs with his mouth. Her thumb rubs down onto the head of his cock, smearing the leaking pre-cum as she tugs lightly, spreads her fingers back down his shaft—her forefinger quickens on her cunt and everything is starting to throb so hotly, intensely and _achingly good_ and she _just_ _wants_ _more_. He groans onto her chest, closing his eyes at her fast touch.

Ludwig trails down over her sternum and to her belly, and her hand moves from his dick to scrape over his abdomen as he pulls away, tugs her thighs around him as he sits on the balls of his feet. His hands pull at her underwear, and she raises her hips for him to rush them down the smoothness of her legs, the garment feeling terribly wet in his palm. He throws them away, leaning down to brush her hipbone with his teeth, and she groans, "—Lud, this isn't _quick_ —"

"It can be quick," he replies idly, and she swipes a hand over her collarbone, glancing down at him as she pushes her foot over his strong thigh in response to his jest. He gives her a look, and his breath warms her glistenings—she hums lowly in need—and he continues, "You don't want this, then?"

" _No!_ —I mean, _yes, of course,_ but I _want_ —" she stutters exasperatedly, his tongue lapping her clit once as she exhales out harshly. "Lud, I just want—to, _fuck_ —" he flattens his tongue, suckles and she groans, because what she really wants is a _harsh_ , quick fuck, and she hates asking for it. She sits up, panting brokenly, and says as he raises himself, "Lud, I just—I want you to _fuck_ _me_."

She bites her lip as they sit there, both sweaty and messy and short-winded, and Ludwig raises his brows for an instant, pausing. "Okay—ja," he says, finally, his cock pulsing hard against his boxer-briefs. He tugs them down, his hardness bouncing against his abdomen, and she leans forward, rubbing it back-and-forth as he moves forward to kiss her messily, open-mouthed and wet. He breaks apart and rolls her over, has her inch up the bed and she flattens onto her stomach, spreads her legs. Her ass perts up and it'd be so incredibly embarrassing at how _ready_ and _wet_ she is if it weren't for the way his palm slides over the curve of her buttcheek to that of her hip and the luscious feel of pleasure as he pushes into her cunt. She groans in a stutter, her breath breaking over her lips as he draws back and in again, her hands fisting the white sheets underneath her, and she hears him moan behind her in a lost sigh.

His entirely too tight and warm hold on her waist is exactly how she wants it, but his hands guide her slowly back onto his cock, repeatedly as he draws his thrusts out and she just wants it faster. Mathilde groans again; he's being too gradual, and she knows it's on purpose, his hips bucking into her behind leisurely.

" _Ludwig_ —" she starts, faltering as he leans forward and pushes harder, his forehead tapping her back. He hums in response, his mouth dragging idly over her right shoulder blade and then down the middle of her spine. His breath grows hot over the expanse of her skin, and her fingernails are scratching into her sheets, pulling as everything loses itself to sense and touch and thrill.

Mathilde tightens the hold of her fists in her covers and sinks her pelvis into his, pushing herself back onto him in a bounce as she starts to meet his thrusts. He quickens the rhythm abruptly, and one of his hands dips in between her inner thighs, his thumb rubbing her clit. Her gasp catches in her throat as she keens into his touch, and she manages an, "—oh, _god_ — _Ludwig_ —" her forehead pressing into the mattress and her belly coiling with heat; it's been too long, and she's _so so sensitive_ underneath him.

He grunts, pressing faster into her, his testes tightening and his hips moving rhythmically against hers, and there's a thrum rousing underneath his skin. Ludwig circles the pad of his thumb onto her clit with more pressure when he hears the stutter of her breath in an 'oh-oh-oh-' as he fucks her harder; she's so terribly close, her breasts brushing over the mattress with each thrust and when his pace quickens just _so_ , her climax unfurls over her, the ecstasy of it all washing out. She bites her finger as she cums, moans out, incredibly loudly in a sharp gasp, "—ugh, _fuck_! Lud— _wig_ —" and shudders against him, her thighs trembling and her chest heaving.

He groans, his pelvis stuttering erratically as he holds her to him, pushes her onto his cock hard as she clenches around him, her orgasm still running through her, and he keens into her as he cums, his hands strong around her waist. He moans loudly, spilling into her cunt, and she hums lowly, panting as his hips finally come to a halt against hers. He sighs loudly, and they're still for a moment, both catching their respires. He bends forward again, kissing the dip of her back before rolling off her, his body slumping on the bed and his head dropping onto her pillow. His hand falls onto his chest as he looks at the ceiling, the low of it all draping itself over him.

Mathilde exhales, all wet and spent and chuckling, her mouth curling as she voices, "Oh, gosh, I needed that." She continues, faintly and sighing, "That was good—very good."

She drops her cheek onto her forearms, resting, and he turns to look at her, tiredly smiling. He hums in agreement, dragging his fingers through his blond, messy, and sticky hair as he sighs, and she presses forward to meet his lips. He brings a hand to her jaw and kisses her back gently.

She pulls away and lays on her side, tiredness starting to sweep over her as her limbs slowly dull in relaxation. He turns to pull her to him, his hand splaying over her belly, but she lets out a short burst of giggles, twisting away from him. "No, _no_ —no cuddling. I'm going to _die_ of heat otherwise."

He frowns for a moment, moving an arm over his head, and then the tug of a smug grin tiredly pulls at his lips.

She catches his expression, and articulates slowly a 'what,' her eyes narrowing.

"It's too hot to cuddle but not enough for sex?" he points out, his mouth stretching into a full smile.

Her mouth drops, and she scoffs in disbelief, "Yes, _precisely_. Are you complaining?" She laughs, moves to swat at him with her pillow—he blocks her, chuckling—and she repeats, "Are you _honestly_ complaining?"

" _Nein, nein,_ " he replies, leaning in towards her as she settles back onto the bed. "Merely pointing it out." He means to kiss her but she chortles, pushing his face away with her hand and admonishes, "Go to _sleep_ , you dork."

.

When they've both closed their eyes, and their breathing's become a regular, quiet thrum he murmurs, still thinking about the cuddling, "It's going to get colder later in the night."

"Yes, well," she whispers back, "it's a good thing I have covers." There's a jab in her side and she giggles lowly, moving closer to him. "And a boyfriend," she adds, to which he hums tiredly in agreement, both falling asleep.


End file.
